


Against The Full Moon

by drunkgeisha



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Alternate Universe - World War II, F/M, Gen, M/M, Memory Magic, Pensieves, Werewolf, Werewolf Register, werewolf Percival Graves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-05
Updated: 2018-04-18
Packaged: 2019-04-18 20:29:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14221179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drunkgeisha/pseuds/drunkgeisha
Summary: Rolf wondered how someone as reverent of beasts as his grandfather would be able to make something as harsh and discriminating as the Werewolf Register.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I tried my best to keep this story within canon as much as I could. It has always nagged me how Newt, our ever loving cinnamon roll, had it in him to create something like the Werewolf Register. I personally believe that it's one of his greatest blunders and I would like to build a story on that. I merely whipped things up in my head and did little bits of research to supply credibility to the story, but I would like to claim that this is mainly fiction and that any divergence from canon shall be considered part of the whole experience.
> 
> Disclaimer: All characters belong to J.K. Rowling.

Being friends with Luna Lovegood meant being part of the small circle of people who spent summer afternoons at the Burrow. Rolf shied away from them at first, often saying that he spent his summers with his grandfather in Dorset, caring for their hippogriffs. Harry and the others never forced him, though, and Rolf just continued to turn down their invitations.  
  
Three summers later, Luna looked at him and smiled wistfully, demanding that he come with them. Rolf's standard excuse was already at the tip of his tongue when Luna patted his nose, her eyes dancing in mischief.  
  
"I already talked to your grandfather," she smiled lazily. "He'd be glad to have your out of his hair for one summer."  
  
Ten days later, Rolf found himself carrying his grandfather's old extendable suitcase amongst the swampy plains of the Burrow's nearest apparition point.  
  
Ginny greeted him with a firm hug while Harry shook his hand. Hermione smiled and gave him a wave and Ron placed his heavy hands on his shoulders, his face red from drinking Firewhiskey so early in the morning.  
  
"About bloody time, mate!"  
  
Rolf chuckled and let them lead him and Luna towards the Weasley house. Neville waved his dirtied hands as they approached. He was helping Mrs. Weasley degnome the garden, he mentioned. Rolf went with him and found the Weasley twins doing a game of who kicks a gnome the farthest. Mrs. Weasley was red-faced in fury as she scolds her boys, asking them to just get the bloody work done and stop being such rascals.  
  
"They do that every year," a low voice chuckled beside him and Rolf turned. Red hair and a light smile, with faint scars on his left jaw. "Drives mum mad."  
  
_Bill Weasley_ , Rolf thought to himself. He was a prominent figure during the war, noted for his heroic deeds despite being turned by one Fenrir Greyback. The Daily Prophet mentioned the dissolution of his marriage to Fleur Delacour, as well, a few years back. People had whispered then, citing how handling a werewolf proved too much of a strain into their relationship.  
  
Rolf could only think of how bloody stupid Fleur must have been, to let go of such a man.  
  
"H-Hello," he greeted rather shyly, extending his hand and offering a small smile. "Rolf Scamander."  
  
Bill turned his bright eyes to him and smiled--so lighthearted and so charming that Rolf found himself staring.  
  
"Bill Weasley," he replied. Bill grabbed his hand and shook it firmly, chuckling after. His grip was strong and Rolf could feel the roughness of his palms against his own. He was rather pale, a strange contrast to Rolf's sun-baked skin. "Come on, Scamander. Lunch is waiting."  
  
Bill hooked his arm around his shoulders as if he were a brother and not some new stranger. They were all like this, the Weasleys. As if they're a family born to be friendly to others. Bill toured him around the house, saying that the others are too busy with other chores. Rolf found himself dragged towards the topmost floor, nearly getting mauled by the ghoul at the attic. He shrieked so loudly that Bill had tears in his eyes from laughing, the sound echoing and piercing straight into Rolf's entire being. It was a lovely sound.  
  
Lunch came and Rolf found himself in pleasant company. The Weasleys (and their friends) were a rowdy bunch. He observed as they passed food along and chatted amongst different groups, the conversations never ending. He ate his potatoes as Percy rambled on about the new position he got at the Ministry, drank his pumpkin juice as Ginny, Fred, George and Harry taunted Ron and his fanaticism of the Chudley Cannons, and had a slice of bread as he caught the conversation between brothers Bill and Charlie.  
  
"--didn't get the job."  
  
"What?" It was Charlie. "But your curse-breaking is unparalleled in Britain! They're fools to not hire you!"  
  
Bill put some chicken into his mouth and shrugged, talking with his mouth full.  
  
"I'm a werewolf," he said as if it were an obvious reason.  
  
"That bloody Werewolf Register," Charlie cursed and Rolf winced. "It's nothing but a leash. As if werewolves aren't struggling enough. It's been decades since that bloody menace had been drafted, I just don't understand why they'd not do something that would actually help rather than harm."  
  
Hermione eyed Rolf knowingly. Not all wizards knew that the person behind the Werewolf Register was his very own grandfather, Newton Scamander. The Werewolf Register, drafted and enacted in 1947 created a regulation wherein all werewolves are forced to register themselves--a form of tagging. It was initially meant to protect wizardkind from such unstable beings; however, it became a tool of discrimination. Oftentimes, registered werewolves are perceived too dangerous and are rarely provided opportunities in education, work, and in starting a family.  
  
If there was one thing he was ashamed his grandfather did, it was this.  
  
Rolf excused himself and no one really bothered to stop him as he walked out to breathe some air. He hardly noticed a pair of green eyes watching him as he went outside.  
  
\--  
  
Rolf Scamander adores his grandfather.  
  
Newt is kind, compassionate, and adorably shy. He never initiates conversations and just lightly greets hello to his visitors and guests. Magical beasts often roamed around his home, a small cottage at the foot of a mountain, charmed with the ever-useful Extendable Charms his grandfather was so keen on using.  
  
Spending summers with his grandfather endeared Rolf to all manners of creatures. He learned about them, understood that they are more than their magical properties, and fought for the proper care and handling of said creatures side by side his grandfather. He often found himself nestled between mooncalves as he slept, fed by a Demiguise, and, most of the time, looking for his family ring only to find it within the Niffler's hoard. Creatures had always been a part of his grandfather's life and, in turn, they have become part of Rolf's.  
  
So it doesn't make sense how someone as reverent of beasts such as his grandfather would come up with something as harsh and discriminating as the Werewolf Register.  
  
"You look troubled," Newt mentioned as they sat together by the fire, a small Hippogriff settled on his lap.  
  
Rolf watched his grandfather--his gentle grandfather--and thought that it could've been all a mistake. But then, Bill Weasley--  
  
"Why did you make the Werewolf Register?"  
  
Calm hands that petted the hippogriff stopped and Newt stared at his grandchild. Dread filled Rolf as he watched his grandfather's gentle eyes grow cold, his face stiff and unfeeling. It was as if he was a different person entirely.  
  
"To protect Muggles and wizards from them, of course," Rolf shook his head at his grandfather's answer, not believing him. It was shop talk  
  
"But they never chose lycanthropy," Rolf argued and Newt's jaw tightened. "They shouldn't be punished just because people fear them. They're hardly harmless and Wolfsbane has come a long way in establishing contro--"  
  
"Do not speak as if you know everything there is to know about werewolves."  
  
Newt was angry, Rolf realized. Not at him, but at something else. Something that belonged to the past. Something that his grandfather had no wish to share.  
  
"I, once, had the same blinded notions of lycanthropy as you once did," Newt brushed the hippogriff aside and stood up. "I realized I was wrong to believe that all creatures are inherently good."  
  
Rolf glared at the fire as his grandfather left him, unyielding in his stand about werewolves. It was obvious now, Rolf thought, obvious that there was one thing that fueled his grandfather to decide on making something cruel.  
  
Anger.  
  
\--  
  
Rolf found himself talking to Bill Weasley, of all people.  
  
Bill listened as Rolf complained about how his grandfather dismissed the topic altogether as if it wasn't even something worth debating about. He rambled on about the unfair treatment of werewolves just because of their nature, how people eye them with wariness and fear, and the lack of facilities that cater to werewolves' needs whenever the full moon rises.  
  
"You sound like an advocate," Bill teased and bumped his shoulder against Rolf's.  
  
Maybe he was, Rolf thought. Maybe he should be.  
  
\--  
  
The first thing Rolf did was to officially declare werewolves as Beings.  
  
As Beings, werewolves were given opportunities and rights to create decisions and integrate themselves into society. For too long have they been tossed between Beast and Being and Rolf, using his influence as a Scamander, decided that this is a great first step in making them less marginalized.  
  
Everything else seemed to follow after that.  
  
Rolf rose to prominence after that, getting feedback from known werewolves and having them speak out more often in public. Threats had come and gone; however, no one dared to enact on it. Rolf received pledges from the majority of the Wizarding community and has been actively backed by the Golden Trio, as well as various heroes during the Second Wizarding War. He was well-protected and his campaigns well-received. People began asking him to do public appearances, to write columns on known magical publications like The Quibbler and The Daily Prophet. He was often invited to talk on the Wireless, with Lee Jordan often advocating for him.  
  
Legislations were drafted for the integration of werewolf rights and the once marginalized and ostracized lycanthropy community started voicing out their opinions and demanding fair treatment. Potion Masters started publicly announcing their discoveries on advanced reiterations of the Wolfsbane Potion, and the establishment of the Werewolf Coalition--headed by Lavender Brown--spearheaded community integration programs that were vital in dispelling fear from common wizarding folk.  
  
As progress on werewolf rights continued, people started gossiping. It became public knowledge, that the younger Scamander is doing everything to go against what his grandfather started. Rita Skeeter, the ever-conniving journalist, wrote an article about them, citing bad blood as the main cause as to why the younger Scamander decided to go against what his grandfather had started. Her article, entitled _Slimey Scamander_ , cited how Newt Scamander abhorred werewolves and linking it to absurd details of his career and life. All the while, it labeled Rolf as an advocate who merely wants to shine above his grandfather's shadow--a Magizoologist with no accomplishments and would always be haunted by the fame his grandfather had for himself.  
  
"Wretched, that woman," Hermione remarked upon reading the article. "I would gladly hex her permanently into that beetle form of hers."  
  
Rolf shrugged and watched as the Weasley brothers came bursting out the doors, sweaty from a good round of Quidditch. He couldn't care less, Rolf thought, as he watched the eldest Weasley smiling from a distance. Because Rita Skeeter could not be farther from the truth.  
  
And as Bill Weasley talked so passionately about his new curse-breaking work in Romania over dinner, Rolf knew the one true reason for all his campaigns and, as it seems, accomplishments.  
  
Love.  
  
\--  
  
Rolf visited his grandfather five summers after, his hand clasped tight against Bill's. Hoppy, Newt's eldest kneazle, opened the door for them with a frown, as if reprimanding Rolf for not visiting.  
  
"Ah, there you are," Newt smiled warmly at them both from his study table. A burning cage sat in the middle, suspended in midair as his grandfather studied its contents.  
  
"Brazilian fire slugs," he remarked. "They burnt through every cage I put them in. Even metal. Remarkable creatures, really."  
  
The older Scamander stood up and gave Rolf a long hug. His familiar scent--a mixture of freshly mown grass and demiguise fur--calmed Rolf. Any hesitation he had for visiting his grandfather had evaporated.  
  
"Grandfather, this is Bill Weasley," Rolf motioned for Bill to come forward, his usual charming self suddenly shy in front of the older Scamander. "My intended."  
  
Understanding flashed in Newt's eyes as he gave them both an awkward smile. He shook Bill's hand and motioned for them to sit down.   
  
"We would like to invite you to our wedding," Rolf tried to swallow the lump in his throat. It was one thing to introduce his lover to the one man he revered and adored apart from Bill. The man he decided to shun because of his beliefs that caused his lover pain. "I-It'll be late into the year, in the middle of December, seeing as it couldn't be a full moon--"  
  
"You are a werewolf, Mr. Weasley?" Newt asked as if sensing his grandson's agitation. Three cups of tea appeared in front of them, followed by a pair of blue eyes. "Oh thank you, Dougal."  
  
Bill nodded, his hand stiff against Rolf's and Rolf craned his head to see. He expected his grandfather to stare coldly, the same unfeeling expression he had that very first moment Rolf asked about the Werewolf Register.  
  
And yet.  
  
Newt stared at them with open affection, his eyes warm and melancholic. A soft smile played on his lips and his gaze was distant. Rolf could see his grandfather staring at their clasped hands, their shoulders and knees bumping at their close proximity. He was staring at them yet he wasn't, his eyes so wistful that Rolf could feel him thinking of something similar yet different entirely.  
  
"Wolves are very tactile creatures," Newt commented, his smile soft yet sad. "Mr. Weasley has hardly let go of your hand since you entered my house."  
  
Newt chucked as Rolf blushed. He tried to remove his hand after being caught, yet his lover held on. Bill's gaze was still directed at Newt, his nostrils flared as if scenting, his eyes wide.  
  
Rolf watched as Bill eyed his grandfather in fascination as if he could sense something else entirely.  
  
"You are mated," Bill said after a few minutes, unable to keep things to himself. "I-I don't understand..."  
  
Rolf turned to his grandfather questioningly. Newt's eyes are downcast, filled with a sadness Rolf couldn't place. It wasn't like the sadness Newt had on his person when her grandmother died. Nor was it the heaviness his person held when his prized hippogriff, Fido, passed on. This felt heavy, a cloak of dark cloth, draped onto his person. He looked small and frail, his pallor different and his coloring pale.  
  
"Not anymore," Newt whispered before setting down his tea, standing up and going towards the bedrooms. Bill followed without question and Rolf scampered towards them, confused.  
  
"B-But the Werewolf Register--" Bill started, stopping when he saw the Pensieve.  
  
It was a small room. Bottles of memories lined the walls, the milky liquid languidly swimming within the glass vials. A large pensieve sat in the middle of the room, its waters calm and dark. Newt Accio-ed three bottles, bottles distinctly different from the rest. The cloud of memories was gray, slow-moving, and the bottles were a bit larger than the rest.  
  
Rolf felt like he wanted to leave.  
  
Bill clutched his hand tightly, both of them waiting for Newt to say or do something.  
  
"You once asked me why I made the Register," Newt uncorked a vial and poured the contents onto the Pensieve, the mirror coming to life. Images float together as the liquid swirled and Newt looked at his grandson. "I made it to protect the people I love."  
  
Rolf clenched his jaw as Bill tensed. The silence stretched but Rolf held his tongue. He knew his grandfather has more to say.  
  
"You have to realize, my dear boy, that my circumstances were different," Newt watched the water and smiled as something resurfaced, his gaze fond yet melancholic. "Werewolves were used, made into weapons that kill. They were instruments of war. I had to put a stop to it, to such reckless carnage."  
  
Bill gasped and Rolf turned, confused.  
  
"E-Even if it meant persecution?"  
  
Newt looked straight into Bill's eyes and nodded.  
  
"He knew that it had to be done."  
  
Newt stepped down from the platform and beckoned to Rolf, inviting him to look.  
  
"These are memories I chose to banish from my own mind, my lad. Memories that are far too heavy for me to bear," Newt hugged himself as if shielding himself from pain. "Do view these memories at your own discretion."  
  
Newt moved towards the door, his back turned to them before he turned one last time.  
  
"I will be in the study once you're finished. Supper should be ready by then."  
  
Rolf and Bill nodded, finally looking at the Pensieve as his grandfather left them alone. With a fierce nod, Rolf tried to calm his racing heart, eager to know why his grandfather--his gentle, kindhearted grandfather--did what he did all those years ago.  
  
Rolf put his face close to the mirror...and looked.  
  
\--


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took way longer than I expected but hey! I'm happy :)
> 
> Please please PLEASE don't expect this to be complete truth. I did my research and tried my best to keep things truthful, but this is fiction so I'd rather everyone see it as that. Hehe.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy!!

“Newt!”

A woman, with wild short hair and sleepless eyes, bound into the room and marched straight towards the closed suitcase in the middle of the bed.

“Newt!” She knocked hard. “We found him, Newt!”

The suitcase opened and out came a man, red hair as wild as the sun and face as pale as the moon. Freckles dotted his nose and cheeks and his eyes were a misty shade of green. His wand was nestled between his lips as he emerged, fretful as he saw tears in the woman’s eyes.

But they weren’t tears of sorrow.

“Tina,” he whispered and the woman chuckled as she cried. She threw herself at him and cried on his shoulder, uncaring of propriety. He clung onto her as she trembled, his hold soothing and his lips whispering against her ear, his voice familiar and soft and comforting.

“We found him! We finally found him!”

*

Him meant Percival Graves.

Three months it took, to find any trace of the man. Ever since Grindelwald’s capture, MACUSA had been trying its best to find the impersonated Director of Magical Security. Even when subjected to torture and extreme questioning, Grindelwald only chuckled maniacally and told them nothing—only that he kept Percival alive, and that their incompetence will not keep him that way.

Those three months were heartbreaking. Tina rarely came home, obsessed with finding her mentor. Queenie would often bribe her into sleeping and eating, pleading on some days that she rest and leave the case be for a few moments. It is guilt, they knew, which fueled each and every Auror in MACUSA to find Percival Graves—to find him _alive._

Percival was found in New Jersey, identified by a criminal informant of Auror Abernathy. He was chained, his body frail and dirtied. Bones were sticking out of his stomach and hips, his hair matted and brittle. He was heavily scarred, his hands bound by pig iron chains that chafed the skin raw. Claw marks decorated the walls and carcasses of dead animals littered the floors. It was carnage.

“Leave it,” he rasped as he found three aurors in his space, trying to unclasp the bonds on his wrist and feet.

Tina was about to protest when she gasped, her eyes locking into Percival’s.

His eyes were pitch black.

*

Newt knew little about werewolves.

He met one in Argentina. He was a fellow traveler, coincidentally sharing a train cabin with Newt bound for Chile. The man had no luggage, his coat musty and threadbare, and Newt immediately felt on edge. He had never been truly good with people.

“Don’t fret, Master Wizard,” the man muttered as night crawled and Newt eyed him warily. “I mean no harm to you or your creatures.”

He stared at Newt and the moonlight accented his eyes—dark as night, yet unbearably bright amidst the darkness.

Newt immediately relaxed after, and promptly left the man alone. They slept in relative silence, the ride long yet peaceful. When dawn broke, the man was already on his feet, an amused smirk on his face.

“You’re an odd sort,” he commented at Newt. “Relaxin’ the moment you knew I was a werewolf.”

He was gone before Newt could comment.

Newt knew little about werewolves.

So being presented with a feral werewolf with no prior firsthand knowledge of such creatures, Newt felt at a loss on what to do.

Tina called him the moment they got Percival Graces out of the dingy attic in Jersey and transported straight towards St Rosewood’s Hospital. He was underfed and clearly agitated, Tina said, and he does nothing but growl at anyone—even to people he knew. It seemed that Grindelwald turned him and kept him in poor health, merely barely alive, as to break his mind and turn him into the animal he was meant to become—a monster who kills.

“You have to help him Newt. Please.”

So Newt did.

*

The first time Newt visited Percival, he was attacked.

Percival was quick and silent and Newt had no time to apparate out of range as soon as Percival lunged. The werewolf had him pinned against the floor, his face resembling that of a man yet his mind of a beast. A large claw swiped at his collarbone and sliced through his flesh, blood dripping against the wooden floors. Newt hissed yet bore the pain, not wanting to agitate the man further than what he had already done.

Three Aurors, Tina included, drew their wands and aimed, ready to fire at Percival the moment they realized that he had Newt injured.

“Don’t!” Newt cried, his breathing heavy as Percival pinned him down some more, his lungs barely catching breath. “Leave us.”

“Newt—“ Tina inched forward and Percival growled at her in response. Newt shook his head sharply and carefully touched Percival’s arm, trying to redirect his attention to him.

Percival growled in warning and he placed his mouth dangerously close to Newt’s neck. Blood mingled with sweat and werewolf breath as Percival drooled on his wounds, extending his injury. Despite the pain, Newt relaxed, pliant against his captor, knowing that the wolf would not appreciate further threats. He took deep breaths and let his magic exude calmness, his eyes closed as the wolf became a steady weight on top of him.

“Percival,” Newt called calmly, choosing not to think about how the man’s fangs lie dangerously close to his throat. “I won’t hurt you, Percival. I’m here to help you.”

The man growled against his ear and Newt held his breath.

“I’ll turn around, Percival,” he warned and waited. Percival didn’t move, yet his hold loosened. Newt turned and eyed the man in front of him.

Percival was more wolf than man. His face was gaunt, his hair in a state of disarray that seemed so unlike the man he was before. His eyes were as dark as night and his fangs extended as if threatening. His jaw was set tight, alert in the face of danger, and Newt held his gaze. Newt held out his palm and let the werewolf scent his wrist, his magic soothing and calm as it wrapped against the older man. It seemed like hours before Percival let out a long whimper, his body relaxing and falling against Newt’s.

“You’re safe, Percival,” he said as the wolf tucked his nose against Newt’s neck. “I got you.”

“I’ve always got you.”

*

Percival’s recovery spanned over a year and four months.

It took dozens of healers and trained aurors to coax Percival into eating normally, despite his lack of lucidity. Newt was a constant presence, sometimes consulted by the healers for his expertise in magizoology, but mostly to watch over Percival. He has always been fascinated with werewolves and to care for Percival would also benefit Newt in his quest for more knowledge about such elusive creatures.

His routinely visits became more regular as the months passed and Newt found himself issued with a desk within the confines of Percival’s room. He worked as Percival ate and slept, read to him his manuscript, and talked to him about the world and his creatures. Percival did not mind him often, already used to his ramblings and ministrations. He would even eye Newt in amusement sometimes, scoffing at the magizoologist’s usual bouts of clumsiness. Newt became familiar to Percival and, slowly, Percival became familiar to Newt.

On the thirteenth month, Newt had to leave for Japan.

“I-I have to leave for a while,” he mentioned in passing one night, his eyes on his lap as he did so. It pained Newt to leave Percival like this, after making so much progress on his health. “The kappas I rescued a few months ago have been growing well, you see. T-They have to be transported back into their natural habitats.”

Newt played with his quill, the lines on his manuscript filled with scratches. He found himself unable to write today, it seemed.

“I…hope you recover, Percival,” he bit his lip and swallowed. “I-I might not see you again after this. I’m afraid my trip will take a long time to accomplish.”

Newt lifted his head and found Percival eyeing him, his gaze intent. With bated breath, he watched as the werewolf prowled towards him and knelt, his eyes still dark yet somewhat intelligent.

It’s as if he understood every word that Newt said. As if he knew that Newt was leaving him.

He pulled Newt towards him, his mouth finding the slimmer man’s neck. Newt gasped as Percival gave him a long lick, tongue trailing along the scar on his collarbone. Steady hands groped his behind as Percival’s mouth lapped on his throat, his breathing turning ragged and his body flushing in heat. Newt found himself pressed close to the werewolf, bodies in heat as the man held him tightly.

“P-Percival…” he gasped as the werewolf playfully nipped his shoulder. Percival lifted him with strong hands and brought him towards the windowsill, his tongue licking every inch of exposed neck.

And as the stars shone brightly into the night of a new moon, Percival took him for the first time.

*

Percival was back on his feet three months later.

Tina made no mention of Percival looking for him, it seemed as if he had no recollection of his feral state.

Newt didn’t ask in return.

*

“America is quite something, appointing a werewolf in such a high position.”

Newt coughed the paper as Theseus threw it towards him during breakfast. Images swirled in passing as headlines changed, yet one story remained unchanging.

_MACUSA President reappoints Werewolf Graves as Director of Magical Security_

Newt suddenly found himself unable to breathe.

Standing in the photograph is a striking image of Percival Graves, his hair impeccably done and his clothes finely pressed. He’s a picture of upstanding elegance, his frown intimidating as Picquery stood beside him. He looked healthy, Newt noticed rather gladly. Healthy and very handsome.

Newt felt his heart ache.

“It seemed your book helped Graves, baby brother,” Theseus commented and Newt blinked. He turned to the paper and skimmed through the article.

_\--werewolf legislation reforms have been underway in America since two years ago, when renowned magizoologist Newton Scamander released his book, Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. His section on lycanthropy paved way to the integration of werewolves in modern American society, dispelling fear for the once marginalized race of beings._

_By reappointing werewolf Percival Graves, MACUSA President Seraphina Picquery showcases her stand on the formation of the Werewolf Reform Act—_

“He owes you a great deal now.”

Newt doesn’t need Percival to owe him anything. He’d readily give the world to this man if he had to.

*

Newt met Percival again two years later.

The Ministry of Magic had been closely working with MACUSA regarding the formation of Britain’s version of the Werewolf Reform Act, a project spearheaded by Theseus Scamander himself. He advocated that Britain follow America’s footsteps in their progressive lawmaking, citing that there had been no drawbacks since Graves’ reappointment as Director. He had since then been in correspondence with the American auror, ultimately becoming close friends.

Newt knew about all of this. Theseus often wrote about Percival in his letters, even stating that Percival sometimes asked about the younger Scamander. Newt would often reply rather timidly, his letters apologizing that he had to travel to some distant part of the world whenever Percival visits, in hopes that he would distance himself from Percival.

Newt, however, did not expect his brother to invite Percival Graves into their home.

He just arrived from a visit at the newly-established dragon reserve in Romania, his skin kissed by the sun and his hair wild as the winds of the east. He was rather excited, bursting into the door and calling out for his brother’s name, only to stop short a few steps into the foyer as a familiar magic brushed against his skin.

“Percival.”

Percival stood and stared at Newt, completely abandoning Theseus by the parlour. His eyes turned black so fast that it alerted Theseus and, in three long strides, he was already by Newt’s side, his large body pressed against the magizoologist. Percival pressed his nose against Newt’s neck and inhaled, sighing sweetly and relaxing the moment he registered the familiar scent.

“Percy?” Theseus called out warily, his wand drawn. Newt eyed him sharply and shook his head, his hands wrapping around the American as he continued to mark him with his scent.

“Hush love, I got you,” Newt whispered familiarly before disentangling Percival’s head from his neck. The wolf whimpered and Newt shushed him again, a small smile on his lips. Forehead against forehead, Newt watched as Percival stared at him with yearning, and slowly, the black has faded and the stormy blue eyes of the MACUSA Director returned.

“I’ve always got you.”

Percival may have forgotten him, but the wolf never did.

*

“You smell different from the others,” Percival told him one night, his eyes fixed on the waxing crescent above lighting the night sky. “You feel different.”

Newt stayed quiet, never quite knowing how to respond.

Percival turned to him and placed his fingers on Newt’s chin, fixating his faze on the younger man. So much had come between them and so much had happened to them. Newt found himself drawn to his gaze, unable to tear himself from this man—a man who has gone through so much pain and horror, only to come up triumphant after every turn of the tide.

“You have unknowingly saved me numerous times,” Percival continued, his fingers tracing Newt’s lips. His gaze was soft yet confused, as if he doesn’t fully understand what made Newt so important to his wolf. Newt tried to divert his gaze yet Percival stopped him, his head dipping down for a kiss.

It was chase, it was soft, it was fleeting.

“You have always had me.”

It was perfect.

*

They kept their relationship hidden. It was taboo, man and beast in the eyes of others. Newt had always been regarded as the odd sort, with his love for creatures exceeding those of normal expectations. To be with Percival meant further persecution for the man, a man who currently walks on eggshells with his position. It would also cause unnecessary gossip which may affect the outcome of Theseus’ campaign—a campaign that would help beasts and humans alike. Newt has no reason to be selfish.

Their moments nestled within the privacy of their rooms, shared intimacy that no one else knew. Newt basked in it, selfish at the thought that Percival is his— _truly his—_ and no one else’s.

Sometimes, Newt thinks of himself as the wolf instead of Percival, possessive and unwavering.

*

During their first full moon, Newt dared not leave Percival’s side.

Theseus was livid and Percival agitated, both Aurors afraid for the younger man. Percival was known for feral outburst, his mind not fully aligned with his wolf’s. They were afraid that the wolf would kill Newt, blood replacing the once alive person the moment dawn breaks.

Newt shook his head and pressed his forehead against Percival’s, his smile certain.

“You wouldn’t hurt me,” he said before taking Percival by the hand and leading him into their shared bedroom.

“Newt, you have to understand, I have no control—“

Newt turned to him and kissed his worries away, his eyes bright as they parted.

“Trust me,” he said, his voice akin to a whisper. “This time, Percival, I’d like you to not go against the full moon.”

Dusk slowly fades and Percival could feel his wolf. He tensed and Newt grasped his neck, hands steady as they embraced.

“Let your wolf take over. I will still be here in the morning.”

With a final fearful breath, Percival nodded. As dusk turned into night, Percival slowly felt his consciousness slumbering, his body overtaken by the beast within.

*

Morning came and Theseus burst inside the room, his _Alohomora_ so powerful that it almost shattered the wooden door into pieces. Wild eyes roamed the room only to stop at the two lone figures in the middle, a sea of blankets barely covering naked flesh.

Light filtered in through the windows and Newt stirred, his body slightly shifting only to be pulled further deep into Percival’s embrace. Theseus could see marks—redness in Newt’s neck and long scratches along his back—and he turned equally scarlet.

Marks of passion.

He left the room and thanked Merlin that his brother was still alive. He’d just have to kill Percival the moment he wakes.

But for now, they sleep.

*

“Mates?” Percival raised a brow as he read over Newt’s shoulder, the draft filled with scratches and barely finished sketches.

Newt nodded, his gaze fixed on his writing. He continued to write four more sentences before facing Percival, his cheeks flushed and his gaze shy. Words ran across the pages in a frenzy and Percival found himself drawn to reading them, in the same manner that draws him to anything related to Newt.

_\--Werewolves are tactile creatures. Not entirely limited to the wolf, the man has also been observed to prefer touch as his mode of comfort and communication. More often than not, werewolves touch their mates as an example of territoriality—_

A few scratches and scribbles.

_\--like their beastly counterparts, werewolves are bound by a fierce sense of loyalty. Once bonded, werewolves do not seek other mates, even after death. It is during this bizarre, instinctive moment that the werewolf is more man than wolf, seeing that its sense of monogamy does not originate from the idea of procreation—_

Doodles of baby werewolves danced at the bottom of the page.

_\--it is unknown whether a werewolf can conceive or bear children. All known causes of lycanthropy revolve around the bite, a similar notion with vampires—_

Percival lifted his gaze as a fist tugged on his shirt. Newt sat with his back ramrod straight, his face cherry red. He was flushed and Percival snorted in amusement, tucking the magizoologist against his chest. He cradled him before placing his face against Newt’s neck, his familiar scent sending waves of comfort and certainty.

_\--werewolf relationships are often unexplored and understudied, seeing as these sentient beings chose to live in exile. It is a misconception, however, that werewolves are often too vicious to create close relationships with their fellow humans, especially under the influence of the full moon._

_Mated werewolves, even when fully transformed, recognize their partners and remain calm throughout the night. Administration of the Wolfsbane Potion every two hours is an important component—_

Percival chuckled and chose to pay close attention to Newt instead of the manuscript. He licked Newt’s neck, earning a small gasp, and lifted him as if he weighed nothing.

“Off to bed with you,” he growled as he slammed their bedroom door shut, his lips desperately kissing his lover’s.

His Newt.

His mate.

*

News of the impending war reached the Wizarding community the moment the Muggle king appointed Winston Churchill as his new Prime Minister. Minister of Magic Barnabus Blightley paid the Prime Minister a standard visit to let the new Muggle leader learn about the existence of the Wizarding community. These visits often end up surprising the Prime Minister, seeing as they are privy to a world completely different from their own.

It seemed, however, that Blightley found himself in more shock than his muggle counterpart.

“Another bloody war,” Theseus turned the Wireless off, his face gaunt and haunted by memories that had long been lost in the recesses of his mind. “These buggers have nothing better to do than destroy one another.”

Newt thought of Grindelwald and his destructive motives and said nothing. Muggle or wizard, power chooses no one.

Theseus stood and walked towards the fireplace, his expression somber. The Scamander brothers understood the consequences of another war. Blood and death, in numbers too many to count. They have fought their share of the first war, have both seen the horrors and dealt with the nightmares afterwards.

This war will be no different.

They knew that the Werewolf Reform Act, which was finally lobbied into the Wizarding Congress just last week, will be put on hold. They knew that the Ministry shall be administering a stricter ban on joining the war, seeing as this is not theirs to begin with. They knew that there will be those like Theseus—those who’d still go against orders due to youthful arrogance, or some higher sense of duty, or both.

But Newt would have none of it.

Life for the Scamanders has started to come together, a life of happiness that Newt would do everything to protect.

Newt went to his brother and hugged him from behind. Theseus relaxed and placed a hand above this brother’s own, silent as the fire continued to crackle throughout the night.

It wasn’t their war.

*

How wrong they were.

*

This new war was far worse than the first one.

German troops banded under the crown of Adolf Hitler—both Muggle and Wizarding. His crooked ideals morphed itself into an ideology—a metamorphosis that did not only reshape the consciousness of Muggle Germany, but of Wizarding Germany, as well. Attacks on Britain were not only focused on Muggle communities but on Wizarding ones, attacks far more sinister and gruesome as those administered by Grindelwald. Blightley had no choice but to join forces with Prime Minister Churchill in eradicating such a horrendous threat.

Witches and wizards were called to arms. Aurors dispatched along battlefronts and sent to scouting missions that often got them killed. Hogwarts was used as a safe house for Wizarding children, the castle’s fortifications and enchantments enough to dispel the most evil of evils. Newt came with Headmaster Dippet, assisting him during such vital operations. His hippogriffs, together with the help of the demiguises, were crucial in transporting children into the castle.

Newt came home to London to Theseus in full battle regalia, his skin pale against his dark blue coat.

“No,” Newt shook his head and clutched onto his brother, tears forming in his eyes. “You’ve already done your share of war, Thee. Don’t do this again.”

Theseus looked at his brother with sad eyes and shook his head.

“Luftwaffe planes have started bombing Muggle London, Newt. Soon, they’ll be tearing through the rest of our cities, killing our people,” he swallowed and closed his eyes. “I cannot stay behind—“

“And leave me?” Newt clutched onto his brother’s vest, his hands shivering and his voice cracking. Tears ran down his face as he trembled, unable to stop himself. “I still have no word from Percival, all international Portkeys have been disabled, and you’re all I have, Thee. Y-You can’t—“

Theseus pulled him close and kissed the top of his head, his grip muffling the sound of his brother’s cries.

“Goodbye, Newt.”

The sound of apparition never felt so vile as it did that night.

*

When Percival arrived ten days later, his body worse for wear from apparating all the war to Britain from America, all he found was Newt’s suitcase.

Peeking inside, Newt laid atop a bed of hay, his back turned to the trapdoor. He was curled in on himself, so fragile-looking and so frail. Dried tears caressed his cheeks and in his arms was a picture of him and Theseus—two boys riding broomsticks and smiling as they whizzed past four fully-grown hippogriffs.

“Newt…”

Arms found each other as night fell, desperate kisses shared. Percival cradled Newt as he cried throughout the night, his heart heavy at the thought of loss, grief, and fear. And as dawn approached, Percival laid with Newt on the dry earth by the occamy’s nest, praying to Merlin that Theseus be alright.

That this war be over.

*

Days turned into months and months turned into years. Theseus wrote them often, stating that he is well and alive—and that he’s continuing to fight. He was last stationed at Lille, a small quaint French village by the coast. He could even see traces of Britain during good weather, and he often stated how much he missed home.

How much he missed Newt.

Newt kept the letters sewn within the inseam of his coat, afraid of losing them. Percival insisted that they move often, the danger of staying put even more apparent than when in motion. They shared a tracing spell with Theseus during one of his letters, enchanting the parchment to always find the way to its receiver regardless of distance. Percival always kept him close, his werewolf senses useful as they sneaked into taverns and inns, into bars and speakeasies. They were becoming invisible, sometimes mingling with Muggle soldiers along ports and airfields, looking out for stories and news of the war.

It was a hard life. Hard because Newt knew that Percival wanted to join the war as much as Theseus did. Hard because Newt understood that the war made everyone agitated, alert, and fearful. Percival could sense these things, sometimes even taste them in his mouth once it gets too palpable, and Newt understood what sensory overload can do to a creature. With Wolfsbane becoming rare to find and even harder to brew, Newt had to improvise in calming down his mate. Nights nearing the full moon became harder to bear. Often, they would find themselves camped in isolated areas, moments trying them as much as nations tried each other.

Newt was patient and caring and attentive, a mate so perfectly understanding that Percival couldn’t help but think he did not deserve any of it.

*

The first attack happened in Belgium.

It was a quiet affair, and if Newt wasn’t familiar with Flemish, the news wouldn’t have reached them in familiar tongue.

_“There were bodies everywhere,” the soldier whispered, his voice breaking. “N-No. Not even bodies but body **parts.** ”_

Ten soldiers, four of them Wizards, they said. No one could even tell which part belonged to which body. They even said that one of the Muggle soldiers only had a _finger_ left to identify him.

It was brutal carnage. A type of warfare violence that even Newt and Percival were unaware of even existing.

Newt held his mate as the full moon grazed the night sky, his thoughts filled with the horrors they have heard that day.

*

Two attacks in France, two in Russia, and then came Britain.

Theseus wrote to them about it, saying that he lost two troops from the same carnal violence. Whispers came about and the older Scamander tried his best to deny it—but nothing could even being to explain the bloodiness and gruesomeness of the attacks.

No weapon, no bomb, and no man could do this.

A creature could.

Newt felt numb as he read his brother’s letter with the sound of water running as Percival showered next door. He closed his eyes and hoped that Theseus is wrong.

Even if he knew that his brother was right.

*

_Excerpt from Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them Chapter 13: Werewolves_

_Subjected to extreme torture and abysmal living conditions, werewolves turn feral. On some accounts, they even forget their human form and remain trapped as a wolf. These conditions, of course, are considered inhumane. Administration of such illegal practices are considered a criminal offense and, for some countries, punishable by lifetime imprisonment and death._

_It should be understood that werewolves are partially human and are subjected to ethical rights of a similar nature. The Werewolf Reform Act of the United States of America has provided specific legislations on the practice of illegal werewolf breeding as form of protection to affected individuals._

*

Adolf Hitler began breeding werewolves the moment he encountered one as a prisoner of war. He was subjected to torture and extreme experimentations, before ultimately used to breed more werewolves for the war effort.

German soldiers were subjected to the bite. Muggle German ingenuity abled them to form a serum that triggered the wolf, enhancing its abilities and letting it run free for nights more than just the stretch of the full moon. They were fighting as humans during the day and attacking as beasts during the night, slaughtering thousands of people and leaving nothing but blood and gore.

Prisoners of war were turned, too, and made feral. With torture and little food, even the bravest and toughest of souls cracked and killed, the beast overtaking them.

Within a fortnight, the Germans had werewolf troops three hundred strong. They were used to plunder smaller villages along the outskirts of major Allied cities, ravaging through houses and killing everything in their path. Slowly, the Germans were able to take bigger territories, their reach spreading throughout Europe and suffocating the ones who had dared defy them.

Two months later, when the Nazi flag stood tall within the walls of Paris, Hitler had himself an army of one thousand werewolves, ready to kill.

It may have been a full moon then, yet the night never felt so dark.

*

“They’re looking for you,” Percival said one evening, his hands busy feeding the graphorns. “I’ve heard whispers, about how they’re looking for ways to get their hands on you and force you to help them in breeding more werewolves.”

Newt chose not to speak, his hands trembling as his lover continued to talk.

“They think you have so much valuable information about beasts and creatures,” Percival scoffed. “Seeing as you fuck one—“

“Don’t you dare say that,” Newt stood and marched close to Percival, his eyes filled with anger and pain. Percival merely stared, his gaze nonchalant, and he barely took notice of how Newt clutched his coat so tightly that the fabric might break.

“Dare say what? That you’re fucking a beast?”

Newt hissed and pulled him close, his eyes pooling with tears as he glared at the older man.

“You are not a beast!”

Anger flashed in Percival’s eyes and he shoved his lover aside. He tossed the bucket towards the other end of the graphorn habitat, cursing as the creatures ran in alarm. Newt watched as Percival paced, on edge, unable to stop himself from feeling emotions that he can barely control.

Anger. Resentment. Fear. Disgust.

Newt embraced him from behind, stopping him. Sobs came out as the younger man clutched onto Percival with a mighty grip, his face buried in Percival’s back. Percival stood, unmoving, as his lover cried out everything, his silence a testament on how Percival continues to doubt himself amidst all the things that are happening around them.

“You are not a beast.”

Newt whispered it over and over again throughout the night, until he fell asleep, and even as he dreamt.

*

News of Theseus’ death reached them five days after it happened. A Patronus—silvery wisps resembling a phoenix—caught them in the middle of desperate love-making in the middle of the Forest of Dean; and with a voice resembling Dumbledore’s, it solemnly stated that the war hero was lost to them all.

They immediately apparated to Hogwarts, where Theseus’ body was laid to rest.

“They were outnumbered,” Dumbledore explained as Newt stared at the mound of earth where his brother lay, unmoving in his grief. “A troop of twelve men versus forty werewolves. Not one wolf lived as your brother defended the pass, letting at least five of his men run for safety. He fought valiantly, my dear Newton, and you should be proud.”

“I don’t want to be proud,” Newt whispered as he cried, his hands clutching his arms as if shielding himself from everyone else. “I just want him back.”

Percival watched from a distance as his lover cried in anguish, knees deep within the earth and hands grasping grass as his tears fell. He felt his heart break, knowing that the creatures Theseus defended and fought for—creatures like _him—_ ultimately, claimed his life. Such a loss was too much for Newt to bear and Percival couldn’t get rid of the guilt and the disgust, knowing that he can turn into that same monster, and that he’d more likely bring harm than good to the one person he ever loved.

Newt lay next to him asleep that night, an empty bottle of Sleeping Draught by the bedside table. Percival watched him by the window, his boots worn and his coat on. He watched as moonlight highlighted his lover’s peaceful face, his freckles dancing across his cheeks and shadowing amidst his hair. He was beautiful, Percival noted with a sad heart, breathtakingly beautiful.

“Do not do this, Percival.”

Percival did not turn, his eyes still watching Newt as he slept.

“He has already lost his brother,” Dumbledore entered the room, eyes melancholic. “Do not let him lose, you, too.”

Wand at the ready, he opened the window. Evening breeze filtered into the room and Newt shivered, his face scrunched up so beautifully that tempted Percival to just climb in and forget everything he’s ever planned on doing.

“This was not of your making, Percival Graves. Do not blame yourself for the foolishness of others.”

Percival walked towards Newt and placed a lingering kiss at the top of his head before turning to Dumbledore, eyes heavy with grief.

“Take care of him, professor.”

He was gone.

*

When the war ended in their favor, the overabundance of feral werewolves remained a problem. The Nazi army had over three thousand werewolves at their disposal at its peak, most of them turned rabid and insane due to extreme torture. They had no understanding of victory, no known master to keep them in check, and they roamed freely across the lands of Europe—killing and turning more and more people. Different ministries started giving out orders on shooting werewolves on sight, instantly killing them regardless of age, gender, and status. What followed the war was a massacre of less-understood creatures, a massacre driven by fear and anguish over the repercussions they left for everyone to remember.

Outrage formed in the streets, parties claiming that werewolves were more than their beastly urges. People raged over the deaths of wolves that were barely a child, killed on sight by Aurors following orders. Unrest started to coil around the Wizarding community as factions that are for and against the killing of werewolves banded along the streets, rallying outside the Ministry’s doors. Public opinion varied differently and it was utter chaos—no one knew what to do.

So when Newton Artemis Fido Scamander created the Werewolf Registry, it was revolutionary. Not only did it provide a way for the government to track down and catalogue rogue werewolves, but it, too, stopped the killings. It brought peace, at long last.

*

No one knew the truth, though.

No one knew why Newton Scamander did the Register in the first place, why he decided to give up a quiet life at Hogwarts, and devoted himself to creating legislations that exposed him to political and international fame. Not even the release of his extraordinary book could top the exposure he received after the creation of the Werewolf Register.

No one knew that Newton Scamander created the Register for his own selfish reasons, for his own selfish benefits.

No one knew that Newton Scamander continued to read the Register every night, up until the days of his retirement in Dorset, hoping to find a name— _one particular name—_ in the list.

No one knew, that the only reason Newton Scamander went through hoops and leaps in making the Werewolf Register possible, was so that he could find him again.

So that he could find Percival Graves and see him one last time.

*

“Breathe!”

Rolf took heavy breaths as he resurfaced, his face ashen and his cheeks wet with tears. He was shivering yet not from the cold, and Bill cast him a couple of warming charms, together with a transfigured blanket wrapped along his body. Bill dragged him towards the parlour and placed him near the fireplace, muttering sweetly in his ear as his brain adjusted back into reality.

And when Newt entered the room, Rolf stood and ran towards his grandfather, crying as he hugged the older Scamander with an understanding only the two of them will know.

*

Bill and Rolf got married on a Tuesday.

It was a small ceremony, mostly comprised of friends, family, and his grandfather’s creatures. The sun shone brightly, the weather fairly warm, and Rolf felt at his happiest. He watched as people mingled with one another after the ceremony, lighthearted conversations filling the air. Rolf scanned the crowd and saw his grandfather sitting underneath an old oak tree by the periphery of the ceremony grounds, Dougal beside him like an ever-loyal friend.

Newt told him what happened after, of his life as a magizoologist and a family man. He told Rolf of how he married Porpentina Goldstein, his grandmother, after the war—a marriage filled with love and friendship and happiness. Newt told him of his other adventures, of how his life became more and more colorful as his sons and grandsons grew up, as wizardfolk began caring and fighting for creatures, and as his retirement brought him back to having time for himself to reflect and care for creatures as he once did within his suitcase.

They never spoke of Theseus, of Percival, and of anything Rolf saw within the Pensieve.

“Go on, then.”

Rolf turned and saw his husband, a smile on his face as he gestured towards his grandfather. Rolf smiled and nodded, walking towards the older man, his heart beating wildly in his chest as he did so. Dougal caught sight of him as he approached and he tapped Newt by the arm, wakening him from a peaceful slumber.

“Ah, Mr. Scamander-Weasley,” Newt greeted with a smile.

Rolf sat down beside his grandfather and gave him a long hug, before smiling and handing him a piece of parchment.

Newt gazed at it curiously before tearing it open, his eyes widening as he saw the contents.

Wedding guests were surprised when the two Scamanders let out a burst of laughter with so much joy, the older man clutching his grandson as they hugged amongst the grass. Some chuckled and watched in reverence, not fully knowing what brought such joy, mostly speculating that it must have been the wedding.

But it wasn’t the wedding. It wasn’t even remotely near anything anyone thought it might have been.

The parchment fell beside them as the two Scamanders hugged, a parchment curtailing a list of names on known werewolves across Europe, a parchment that started what Rita Skeeter thought to be the greatest rift between grandfather and grandson.

And on the bottom of the list, scribbled in a hurried fashion, were two words that brought immense joy to someone who experienced so much pain.

_Percival Graves_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU TO EVERYONE WHO APPRECIATED THIS STORY. REALLY.
> 
> I'm cooking up something more long-term so hopefully I get to publish that as soon as I finish a couple of chapters. Thank you guys! You're the best!


End file.
